


After the Storm

by goldenhart



Series: Across the Line [2]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: A warm bed is a welcome thing after a cold night.
Relationships: William Bush/Horatio Hornblower
Series: Across the Line [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627324
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/gifts).

> For putting up with my endless snippets and providing nothing but encouragement in return.

It was as black a night as any Bush could remember; three days ago a cruel westerly gale had forced the _Hotspur_ to beat far out to sea to avoid being caught on a lee shore and since then she had remained there, seventy miles from the mouth of the Gironde, lying hove-to as the sea and wind roared and shrieked about her like a beast of Hell. The men were miserable; food and water were in good — if not abundant — supply, but the _Hotspur_ was still crowded with the remaining men of the _Resolve_ and the thought of England, with all its temptations, somewhere over the horizon was enough to drive any man mad. Belowdecks it was warm but damp, rows of coats that were never quite dry hanging like dead men off hooks and hammocks, and the pumps below working day and night. _Hotspur _would survive the storm — Bush had made sure of it — but she was a beaten and fragile thing, and he could only hope that this winter would not prove to be the twin of the year before. 

His fears were soon shown to be unfounded; the night, black as it was, began to calm as the first watch ended, and Hornblower, with a grim look in his eye, ordered for reefed topsails to be set and to beat sufficiently to windward so that when the winds proved more favourable they might make a free run to Ushant, where the squadron lay in wait. Then he retired, grey with fatigue, from the quarterdeck, Bush following him not long after like a faithful dog trailing its master to bed.

Hornblower was still undressing when Bush entered the cabin, his numb fingers struggling with the buttons on his waistcoat. He smiled wearily when he saw Bush, and left his waistcoat as it was to step over to Bush and touch Bush’s chilled cheek with the back of his knuckles. 

“You’re frozen half to death,” he said, and unbuttoned the rest of his waistcoat. “Get your things off and get into bed.” 

Bush obeyed, undressing with practiced hurriedness before climbing into the cot and arranging himself on his side with his back toward the bulkhead. He lay there, his head propped on his hand, as he watched Hornblower undress. He liked seeing Hornblower naked, he liked kissing and touching Hornblower even more. Something in his expression must have betrayed his thoughts, because Hornblower, catching Bush’s eye after he pulled his shirt off, flushed and hurriedly folded his shirt. 

“Ready?” he asked, poised to blow out the lantern, and Bush nodded. 

The cabin was suddenly very dark, no moonlight filtering through the painted curtains. Bush could only hear Hornblower moving about in the blackness, tidying away the last of his things, before a sudden pressure on the other side of the cot and the creaking of ropes told him Hornblower was trying to get into the cot. It was never easy, trying to get into a cot when it was already occupied; the manoeuvre was a delicate one, and required forethought. Bush pulled the covers back, shivering as the frigid night air worked its way into the bedding, and suddenly felt the press of cold, clammy skin against his own. A pair of icy feet worked their way between his, and then Hornblower’s arm was around him, holding him close. Bush tucked the blankets around his captain and slipped his arm beneath the covers to wrap around Hornblower’s waist and draw him even closer than before. They were pressed chest-to-chest now, their legs tangled, shivering as warmth slowly returned to them. A frozen nose nudged Bush’s cheek, and then a warm pair of lips pressed gently against his own, a tentative question that Bush answered wholeheartedly. A moment later Hornblower pulled away, chuckling softly, and Bush frowned, put out that Hornblower should spoil such a delightful moment. 

“What is it, sir?” he asked, unable to keep his irritation out of his voice. Hornblower always got into a queer mood when he was tired, and he almost always took it out on Bush, for better or for worse. 

“Even your mouth is cold,” Hornblower said, amused, and Bush scowled, unhappy with being the object of amusement. 

“Every part of you is cold, sir,” Bush replied. Hornblower laughed again, and Bush knew he was smiling at Bush’s annoyance. 

“Not every part,” said Hornblower, wryly. Bush nearly swore at him, and only checked himself in time.

“You’re in a wicked mood, sir.”

Hornblower kissed him again, his hand stroking down Bush’s back, over the curve of his arse and back up again. 

“Wicked, am I?” he teased, his hand on Bush’s stomach now, beginning a tantalising descent. “And what might you do about that, hmm?” He wrapped a hand around Bush’s cock, half-hard already, and gave it a quick stroke. “Bend me over a gun and beat me?” 

Bush growled, the image of Hornblower bare-arsed and bent over a gun springing unbidden to his mind. He was intrigued as he was appalled, and it vexed him that Hornblower should tease him in such a manner, speaking of such things with his hand working Bush’s prick. Irritation and intrigue and arousal blurred together until he could stand it no longer, and he kissed Hornblower in a desperate attempt to remedy the feeling. But it still wasn’t enough like this; he wanted more than to be kissed and petted, and the need was so great that he threw caution to the wind and put a hand on Hornblower’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back. 

“Bush—” warned Hornblower as Bush shifted in the cot, but Bush silenced him with a kiss. 

“Not going anywhere, sir,” he promised.

“Then what are you — mind yourself, man!” Hornblower hissed as Bush straddled him, the cot swinging wildly in response to this sudden movement. Bush grinned, unashamed, and kissed him again, fumbling beneath the blankets to bring his cock into alignment with Hornblower’s, his hand wrapping around them both. Hornblower’s breath caught in his throat and he clutched at Bush’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle hard enough to bruise. Bush didn’t care; the feeling of Hornblower’s hard, smooth prick against his own was a heady, delightful sensation, made all the more satisfying by the knowledge it brought Hornblower pleasure too. He could feel it in Hornblower’s body, the way he shuddered and gasped into Bush’s mouth, every muscle drawn tight as he thrust shamelessly into Bush’s hand, and it was enough to drive all cares from Bush’s mind. There was something profound about watching a man as reserved and impassive as Hornblower come undone, and Bush almost wished that the light had not been blown out so he might witness the transformation with his own eyes. 

“William,” breathed Hornblower, and Bush smiled at the familiarity, leaning down to kiss Hornblower again, as he moved his hand faster. Hornblower was close, Bush could tell, his mouth passive beneath Bush’s, barely even returning the kiss.All of a sudden it was too much; Hornblower broke away, gasping, his head thrown back, his body as hard and unyielding as iron, and Bush kissed his neck as he gasped, spilling into Bush’s hand. 

They lay there for some time, damp with sweat, chests heaving as though they’d been skylarking. Bush released Hornblower and took himself in hand, but Hornblower’s cool fingers covered his own and pulled his hand away. 

“Allow me,” said Hornblower, breathless, and Bush wiped his wet hand on his thigh before bracing himself over Hornblower. “Kiss me,” he said, and Bush obeyed, groaning into Hornblower’s mouth as Hornblower’s hand quickened on his prick. 

“Damn, damn,” Bush groaned, pressing his face into Hornblower’s neck. “Sir—” He was babbling incoherently, lost to all reason, unaware of what he was saying or if he was even speaking aloud. He was insane with the sort of madness he normally only knew in battle; he knew nothing and cared for nothing save Hornblower’s hand on his cock and Hornblower’s shoulder beneath his cheek. Inflamed with passion, he kissed Hornblower’s collarbone, a little more teeth than lips, and heard Hornblower hiss in response, but Hornblower’s hand did not slow and he did not say a word. And then Bush’s climax was upon him, sudden as a summer storm, and he sagged against Hornblower, his whole body trembling. A hand stroked his hair, and he slowly felt himself come to life again, as a man who has nearly drowned might slowly revive.

“Easy,” said Hornblower, and kissed Bush’s hair. Bush raised his face to meet Hornblower’s lips and they kissed once more, lazy and satisfied, until Hornblower prodded Bush’s shoulder. 

“Let me out,” he said, and Bush obeyed, rolling out of the cot and nearly dumping Hornblower on the deck. The cabin was cold, and warm and sweaty though he was, Bush shivered as he made his way to the basin and cleaned himself off with a wetted flannel. It was not as dark as before; the moon had come out in the time they were in bed, now shining dimly through the curtains.

The deck behind him creaked and then a pair of arms wrapped around him, a chin resting itself on his shoulder. Bush set the flannel down in the basin and covered Hornblower’s hands with one of his own, leaning back against Hornblower. 

“One of these days I’ll have you in a proper bed,” said Bush, and Hornblower stiffened. 

“Perhaps,” he said curtly, withdrawing from the embrace, and brushed past Bush to take up the flannel. Bush cursed himself for his foolishness; Hornblower did not like being reminded of life on shore, where his wife and child awaited him.

“We could put the bedclothes on the deck,” suggested Bush, touching Hornblower’s shoulder. “Lie there instead. It’d be just as good as a real bed.” 

Hornblower wrung out the flannel and laid it aside before turning to Bush. “I suppose,” he said. In the half-darkness Bush could see a glimmer of a smile on his face. “It would save me the trouble of nearly being flung from my own bed because a great ox of a man decides to roll out.” He touched Bush’s cheek with damp fingertips, and there was something approaching wonderment in his expression. “This means something to you, doesn’t it?” 

“Sir?” 

“You said my name,” said Hornblower, and Bush winced. He knew well enough of Hornblower’s distaste for his Christian name. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Never mind that,” said Hornblower. “It doesn’t matter.” He stepped back, and Bush watched as he straightened up, becoming once more Bush’s captain instead of his friend. “Enough of this. Back to bed.” 

It was hardly an order Bush could ignore. His nightshirt was where he had left it, beneath his pillow, and he pulled it over his head before climbing into the cot. Hornblower followed, still naked. 

“What of your nightshirt, sir?” asked Bush, but Hornblower shook his head as he swung his legs into the cot. 

“You’re plenty warm,” said Hornblower, his head on Bush’s shoulder. “Go to sleep.” 

But Bush knew that Hornblower would still indulge him one last thing. He pressed his lips to Hornblower’s before rolling over onto his side and drawing Hornblower’s arm tight around his waist. 

“Goodnight, sir, " said Bush, warm and satisfied. He felt Hornblower nestling closer behind him, his body matching Bush’s. 

“Goodnight,” said Hornblower, and then very softly, so quiet Bush almost missed it, “Thank you.” 

Bush squeezed Hornblower’s hand; there were no words that could possibly express the depth of affection and gratitude in his own heart. “Goodnight,” he said again, hoping that his tone could convey what his words could not, but he knew even as he spoke that Hornblower was asleep, and so Bush closed his eyes, following his captain into the oblivion of sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are wondering why I wrote a stateroom into _Across the Line_ and not here, it's because I am a fool and was basing my image of Hornblower's cabin off the TV series. I have since read _Hotspur_ and can't reconcile the two images. But if you want to imagine that this all takes place in the privacy of a stateroom, I can't stop you.


End file.
